Re: log: dylan & max
"This world is different," he said in curt justification of the firearm. Years ago(months ago?), her detection would have irked him because deception was a game for a guy who never took things to seriously. Back then, it would have been a lighthearted attempt to out-spy the spy, but now, he didn't really seem to care. This wasn't Las Vegas. This wasn't even New York, not the one that they belonged in. If they belonged anywhere. Lately he wondered about that, it this had always been life, all these revolving doors, and he just hadn't known it. They could spend years, decades, in doors without moving apparently. Dylan didn't know what the 'real' world was anymore, if there ever was one. He told himself that he wouldn't bother with the gun if he was in another plane of existence, but this was a world of villains and supersuits and uncertainty. He convinced himself of that.
"Whiskey, sure," he said with a glance to the bartender, who was ready to pour. "Neat," Dylan told him. And when the rocks glass of room temperature amber came his way, he tilted it toward Max in the form of a small toast. He sipped, and it burned the whole way down. The warmth rooted him, and he thought that it helped, he wasn't going to worry about what was or was not real tonight. That could resume tomorrow.
"And what about you?" He asked with teeth, breath drawn against the spark of whiskey heat on his tongue and in his throat. She clearly wasn't the same, although from what she'd told him, he didn't know how she would be.